


Don't go thinking you gotta be tough and play like a stone

by rokklagio



Series: Nemesis [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Comfort/Angst, M/M, Romantic with a capital R, Swearing, fuck buddies, lol "comfort" well yeah we can consider it comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokklagio/pseuds/rokklagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wakes up - it's not his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't go thinking you gotta be tough and play like a stone

**Author's Note:**

> I know it'd be easier if they all were chapters of a single story, but I like them more as a series. It's not like there's a real plot underneath, right?

 

 

 

That morning was indubitably a gray one.

 

The sun didn't shine like it was supposed to in plain June, and the air was as thick and hostile as mid-October's, when you're in your thinnest shirt and you forgot your jacket on a chair, because you were still feeling fuzzy from a solid 8-hour sleep and couldn't care less to cover yourself from the hasty wind.

When Grantaire opened his eyes, he noticed right away that he wasn't home.

 

First thing off, he didn't have a place he could call 'home'- and Eponine and Musichetta's couch wasn't going to compete for such title. He did have a place before, yes, until he had to decide whether he was going to keep paying for his tuition or the rent. He could have looked for a job, if he actually gave a shit about his condition.

But the walls weren't covered in the old, musky-green paper he was so used to greet in intimidating early mornings or in confusing afternoons after the roughest of the nights: the walls were white- no, wait, a light shade of blue started popping out from the corner of his eyes. He tried to focus, and finally recognized the place.

“Jehan?”

He got slightly up, enough for his head to start crashing him back down on the soft pillow.

Jehan had his light hair smeared all over Grantaire's left arm, but his body was reduced to a ball of soft limbs and silk sheets. He thought the boy to be asleep, but a pair of big, brown eyes was staring back at him.

“'Morning,” he whispered with a smile, as if he didn't want to wake somebody else up.

Grantaire was caught off guard by Jehan's inquiring gaze, so he stretched his arms upward and yawned so that he could have something else to look at (the ceiling, to be exact).

“God. How late is it?” he made to get up (he didn't want to ditch anymore classes this semester) when a hand began to tickle his sides to catch his attention.

“It's still early- the sun has come up just now.” His voice was impressively croaky in the morning, as if the smaller boy had been asleep for ages.

“Yeah, well, I know you probably wake when the rooster goes cock-a-doodle-doo – if there are any in Paris – but I'd like to check on, you know, a clock or something. Don't wanna be late.”

“I swear it's not any later than seven. You'll get to class all right.”

“If you say so.”

He was actually happy to have woken earlier than he predicted- hell, he didn't even think he would wake up before 12, since they went to bed around 3 am the night before, straight off Bahorel's party.

He got up on his elbows and glanced at Jehan, who was lazily sprawled on the bed like a cat.

“How the hell did I wake up this early? Haven't we slept for... roughly 4 hours?”

The smaller boy giggled. “Ok- I was tickling your arm so you could spontaneously wake up, without me taking the advantage and spend the morning with you,” he admitted.

Grantaire smirked. “Feeling lonely?”

He didn't expect to get a rather thoughtful look for an answer- Jehan's eyes seemed to roam on Grantaire's collarbone as if he had to make up his own mind about something.The boy looked at him right in the eyes and got closer, until soft, thin lips kissed the corner of his mouth and his eyes were asking for a permission to go on.

The poet shouldn't be asking – not anymore.

Grantaire grabbed a fistful of Jehan's hair and licked his mouth, prying it open. It was so incredibly easy with Jehan: there were no tricks, no deals, no promises.

He was stroking his neck with his thumb and he didn't have to make sure whether he was doing the right thing or screwing things up. There was nothing hurried: they kissed sloppily, one catching the other's jaw between fingers just to watch him moan for more, but there was no hurried desire in it- just slow violence.

Grantaire threw Jehan back against the mattress, so that he could straddle him and get one of his hands inside the boy's underwear. Jehan usually slept with a t-shirt and some pants on, but Grantaire had a feeling that they didn't go straight to sleep the night before. He remembered the rough kisses they exchanged outside Jehan's apartment, just as hungry and affectionate as the ones they were trading in that precise moment.

Jehan's squirmed under his arms, getting his thin fingers tangled in Grantaire's black curls and his legs crossed over the artist's back.

“'Taire... please-”

He had time to give him one long kiss before scraping the pale neck with his teeth: as soon as his tongue slid over Jehan's throat, the boy started pushing up desperately for any kind of friction. It was frantic and messy and Grantaire kept on sucking on Jehan's jaw until the poet got frustrated and toppled him over. The darker man shot him a bewildered look.

He didn't even get the chance to stroke Jehan's cock properly.

“What the f-”

“Shut the fuck up” Jehan growled.

He looked like a wild animal- with his hair disheveled, his nails scraping Grantaire's skin and his pupils full blown. His fingers traveled from his neck to his navel, not without happily indulging between the hair all along the path.

What surprised Grantaire was that he knew for sure that Jehan used him as a gateway for his Courfeyrac fantasies, but the fact that he was looking – hell, admiring him - with his eyes wide open suggested everything but that. He shut his mouth anyway, only to open it when Jehan's red lips closed around his half-hard cock.

“Jesus- yes, like that- fuck-”

The boy was incredibly good at it: he had his fingers closed around the base, stroking it gently but with a firm grip, so that he could bob his head up and down at his own pace. When he felt confident enough, he bore his eyes into Grantaire's and started licking his shaft till the top, loosing the grip and letting the other man grab his long hair and move his hips however he liked it. As Grantaire was easily losing any kind of rationality in his actions, Jehan kept on sucking him with surprisingly eagerness.

It's not like the boy wasn't passionate when they had sex, quite the contrary: but this time was different. It seemed to Grantaire that his friend had thoughts on his mind that made him go either wild or angry.

He hadn't realized he had his eyes closed until a sudden feel of loss made him open his eyes wide and glared at Jehan, who was standing on his knees with a pair of beautifully red and swollen lips bent in a smirk.

“Thought I was gonna let you finish like that?”

Grantaire shook his head.

“Of course not. You're too much of a greedy asshole to do something like that,” he got on his knees too and started roaming his hands on Jehan's hips, “tell me what you want, babe.”

The poet licked his way around Grantaire's earshell, sinking his fingers on his buttocks and whispered, “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”

“How much?”

“Hard enough for him.”

They were building a labyrinth with no escape, making it worse every time they hooked up and imagined somebody else in the room. They would attack each other with pure, raging desire before lashing out their feelings in favor of mere ghosts.

However, sometimes there was no Enjolras in the picture and Grantaire was just glad that he got to fuck Jehan, and this was one of those times when he didn't have to feel like a sad bastard doing so.

And Jehan- well, he was another story. He couldn't pretend that the man fucking him was his crush, he didn't work that way.

He prayed for Grantaire to cover him with bites and marks so that Courfeyrac would notice them. So that he would notice him.

He pushed Jehan on all-four on the duvet and got off the bed.

“Wait there- just like that,” he warned him with a pointed finger, but the look of hunger and bliss combined that Jehan shot him got right through his erection.

He looked rapidly into the drawer of Jehan's fancy bedside table, only to dig among dozens of moleskins, notes and- well, condoms. He took one, grabbed the lube and jumped back on the bed.

He slapped one of Jehan's cheek (just because he could) and started pouring the liquid on his fingers. He didn't care if he'd dropped some of it on the duvet, by the time Jehan noticed he would be long gone.

“You're so fucking hot like this,” he couldn't help to groan, stroking his own erection slowly. The poet wiggled his ass in a pleased manner and Grantaire felt obliged to slap him once again.

“Why are you pining after someone like Courfeyrac? He doesn't know what he's missing out.”

He smeared the lube all over his puckerhole, and he knew he was making a mess, but he was feeling quite generous at the moment. Jehan sighed at the cold feeling.

“I wish he didn't exist- hah,” Grantaire inserted his finger with less anticipation than expected, “we could have been together, you and I.”

He didn't feel like laughing when he had a handsome young man with his legs beautifully parted before him, but he smiled at the thought nonetheless.

“We could have been doing this for longer. With feelings and shit.”

Jehan was going to say something, but the words got strangled half-way in his throat when Grantaire added a second finger.

“Not if a certain blonde is around-” he managed to choke out, and the artist made sure to shut him up as he began to scissor his fingers.

“Exactly, he's not around, so let's forget about him.”

He got angrier than he expected. He shoved a third finger inside Jehan, but got upset pretty fast when he realized he couldn't shake Enjolras' face from his brain.

He didn't say anything more to Jehan: the only warning the boy received was Grantaire's fingers sinking into the skin of his hips and the pain that followed only a bunch of seconds after. He could feel the boy trying desperately to relax in the process, parting his legs enough not to suffer the stretching.

Grantaire wanted to say that he was so, so sorry for being less than gentle, for being frustrated and lashing it all out on Jehan, who was craving for some love too – just like him – but his body wasn't able to acknowledge any kind of moral at the moment.

He let his cock slip out before slamming it right back in, making Jehan erupt in an obscene moan. He loved when the poet let him know that he liked what he was doing, when we was all but silent about his pleasure; when he was vocal enough to wake his neighbors up.

He grabbed a fistful of hair and leant closer, his hips slamming in and out at their own pace and Jehan's mouth parted in perfect bliss.

“Fuck. You're so hot when you're like this-” the feeling of his chest against Jehan's back, of skin touching skin, was driving him crazy.

He loved Jehan: he loved touching him, above all. He loved the sight of that pale, freckled skin on his own, as if he was messing up with something pure and innocent.

Jehan's hips started pushing back, sometimes with more strength than Grantaire, and he couldn't help but whisper “fucking slut” in his ear. Jehan moaned all the more.

He seized the occasion to let his hand travel down the smaller boy's chest, till he reached his cock and, when he started giving it a couple of strokes, the little poet gasped.

“Harder!”

And so Grantaire did, adjusting himself a little higher and slamming their bodies faster and harder, until he could see faint red bruises forming on Jehan's sides and the smaller boy shiver as he got closer to come.

He didn't know how his friend could do it: Jehan always managed to come way before him, while Grantaire found a hard time coming when bottoming. This is also why they hardly changed position (and Grantaire considered himself lucky enough for being able to fuck Jehan like that, since the little prince always demanded to be on top of him when they were together) but that hardly mattered- not when a beautiful boy is coming undone right under you.

“God,” exhaled Jehan seconds after in a tiny, raspy voice. “I love you, 'Taire.”

“I love you too,” he answered back, kissing him fondly on the cheek before lowering Jehan flat onto the duvet, making sure not to slip out of him. He picked his pillow and put it right under his friend's abs, so that he wouldn't be sore by the end of it.

But Jehan was so, so good to him. He knew him by heart.

He got on his elbows and pushed his ass further up in the air, so that Grantaire could thrust in and out of him faster enough until he spent his own climax inside the poet.

 

There was no Enjolras this time. No golden god to cry over.

  
  


Grantaire tried not to collapse on Jehan, but the other boy lay on his side and forced him to spoon with him. He gave up eventually.

“I need to, uhm, get out,” he mumbled against strawberry hair. Jehan didn't move.

 

“Stay, please?”

 

There was no reason, nor time to fight over Jehan's request: they soon drifted off to a restful sleep.

  
  


Grantaire was destined to ditch his class after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from The Shins' "Simple Song".


End file.
